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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547123">In the Wondrous Realm of Chaste Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valiowk/pseuds/Valiowk'>Valiowk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Wagner’s Sandbox [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Arthurian Mythology, Tristan und Isolde | Tristan and Isolde - Wagner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:01:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valiowk/pseuds/Valiowk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever Isolde thinks of Tristan after those years, she finds it ironic, yet fitting, that they were caught when the compulsive power of the love potion had just faded.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Isolde the Fair/Tristan (Arthurian)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Wagner’s Sandbox [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170812</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In the Wondrous Realm of Chaste Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/97947">This Fire Is Out Of Our Control</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfiona/pseuds/redfiona">redfiona</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>With thanks to redfiona's story for inspiring the details of the misunderstanding that led to the tragedy of Tristan and Isolde.</p><p>While the outline of the medieval tale of Tristan and Isolde is captivating, where details are concerned, I much prefer <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQNcTYVlcEg&amp;t=1485">Richard Wagner’s intelligent, philosophical protagonists</a> to those of medieval versions.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Isolde of the White Hands is misnamed;</em> Isolde the Fair deems as she gazes upon the kaleidoscopic tapestry that her faithful maid Brangäne has handed to her, <em>her appellation should be Isolde of the Myriad-Coloured Hands.</em></p><p>The wife of Tristan should be a rare sensitive matter in the normally harmonious Cornish court, but King Marke’s attendants seem not to have hesitated to pass to the queen the gift that Isolde of Brittany had specified was for her namesake, Isolde of Ireland.</p><p><em>They believed that a woman could not but flaunt her superiority over her rival in love, and that the gift would ill-dispose me towards Tristan,</em> Isolde the Fair fathoms. Even Brangäne, herself a woman, has advised Isolde to pay no heed to the gift, but Isolde does not sense malice as she unrolls the tapestry to reveal its first image, depicting a lyrist with a knightly bearing—Tristan—strumming at a feast. His surroundings are decorated in the Armorican style—it must be the hall of Duke Hoel of Brittany, father of Isolde <em>aux blanches mains</em>. Years ago, such was also Isolde’s first impression of the wounded minstrel Tantris.</p><p>Whenever Isolde thinks of Tristan after these years, she finds it ironic, yet fitting, that they were caught when the compulsive power of the love potion had just faded.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Tristan and Isolde met at night, as always on a ship: the ship that brought Tantris to Ireland to be cured by Queen Isolde and her homonymous daughter, and in which Tristan brought Isolde to Cornwall to be wedded to his liege and uncle. That ship was the garden in which their love sprouted, and perchance where all would be laid to eternal rest.</p>
  <p>For some reason, they were not engrossed in carnal relations that night as they had been since landing in Cornwall, so that it was as though they were once again Tantris and Princess Isolde. Later, Isolde would comprehend that her mother’s brew had been devised to help her overcome her inhibitions during the first days of marriage and subsequently wear off as true love waxed, for even the greatest sorceress’ craft was no match for that of the goddess Áine. If Isolde had imbibed the draught with the partner her mother had had in mind, King Marke, it would have been her mother’s crowning masterpiece, but the philtre had been wasted on Tristan and her in more than one respect.</p>
  <p>They sat beneath the mast from which the young sailor who had riled Isolde on the journey to Cornwall had sung his aria.</p>
  <p>‘Which Irish maiden caught your young sailor’s eye?’ Isolde asked. Barely days ago, during the crossing, she could not have imagined that she would latterly take a friendly interest in that sailor’s well-being.</p>
  <p>‘Your youngest cook. Do you know that greenhorn sailor is still terrified of you? You would not guess it, but on my first voyage I had his role at the masthead. The lady I escorted then was nowhere as fearsome,’ Tristan ribbed.</p>
  <p>‘Did <em>you</em> have a ladylove at that time?’ Isolde deflected. ‘What did you sing to her?’</p>
  <p>By the faint light around them, she perceived Tristan blushing. He sang a few lines coherently, but soon, despite Isolde’s attempt to make out his words, it seemed that he was singing about noodles.</p>
  <p>She leaned into Tristan’s chest and he enfolded her in his arms. ‘Or something like that,’ she whisperingly teased.</p>
  <p>‘Says the one who referred to my lord and uncle as “my Lord Marquis” when she accused me of bringing her to Cornwall vaingloriously,’ Tristan parried, grasping that Isolde had confused the word with the name Marke as the etymology of the two words involved homonyms.</p>
  <p>‘You turned away and laughed! Whereas Brangäne didn’t even notice,’ Isolde chid. ‘I was always good at poetry. It rhymes better! “My Lord <em>Marquis</em> … <em>vaingloriously</em>.” ’</p>
  <p>Tristan shook his head in mock disapproval. He loosed her from his right arm and placed his right hand into the hidden pocket inside his cloak. ‘I had bid the cook to make the lozenges you like to consume when singing or speaking. None for you today.’</p>
  <p>His words did naught to subdue Isolde’s glowing smile—she understood that he would give her the pastilles at the conclusion of their tryst.</p>
  <p>Her heart was so full that she finally had the courage to enquire, ‘Why did you court me for your uncle?’</p>
  <p>Tristan looked away. ‘I was a fool. When you discovered my identity and expelled me from Ireland with wound reopen from slaying the dragon, I thought I could never again enjoy your favour. I remembered that there was nothing you wished more than peace between Ireland and Cornwall, and that you had expressed to your mother that you were willing to marry for the good of Ireland. Misguidedly, I attempted to assist you by proposing before the entire Cornish court a union between you and the worthiest, noblest and kindest man in Cornwall I knew. Then I sailed to Ireland and realised that you had never stopped loving me.’ He posed the question he had not the guts to enquire before. ‘Why did you agree to marry my uncle?’</p>
  <p>Isolde could not find it in her heart to blame Tristan for the misjudgement when she had committed one of equal degree. ‘Morold was a merciless man, especially to the Cornish, but he was my mother’s beloved brother and he doted on me, his niece, so I felt obliged to expel his killer from Ireland. I successfully deceived myself that I hated his slayer until you returned to Ireland and I discerned that my earlier feelings could not have been hate, if I then hated you for trampling on our shared recollections. I told myself when I consented to the marriage before meeting you again that if you treasured not them, then neither would I. Had not my utmost desire been peace between Ireland and Cornwall?’</p>
  <p>Apologies were unnecessary between them. Tristan kissed away Isolde’s tears and buried his face in her bosom.</p>
  <p>‘I envy Parzival,’ Tristan declared.</p>
  <p>Isolde could not help but laugh at the abrupt statement. ‘Because he was reunited with Condwiramurs, whereas you fell into the Haughty Maiden’s trap?’ She feigned disdain.</p>
  <p>Tristan grinned. ‘I take that back. I would willingly succumb to the Haughty Maiden.’</p>
  <p>‘Even were I the goddess of love, you would not visit my grotto now. It is the way of heroes, that the woman they love most must suffer for the sacrifices they make for others,’ Isolde contended, alluding to the need for their love to remain concealed so as not to shame King Marke. She had accepted that reality and was not bitter.</p>
  <p>Tristan was silent for several moments. Finally, he drew the pan flute he carried with him from his belt—it was easier to carry at night than his lyre—and requested of Isolde, ‘Sing something.’</p>
  <p>The world knew Tristan as a lyrist beyond compare, but Isolde was one of few who knew Tristan to be also a master of the pan flute. She had practised her rusty skills at her pan flute to enliven the wounded Tantris, but had thrown it down midway in favour of singing. He had picked up the pan flute to accompany her, and Isolde would never forget how her heart surgingly exalted and her senses blissfully trembled when she recognised that he shaped the melody and brought out the nuances of the lyrics in the same way she did. Afterwards, she had questioned him if he played any other instruments. He had replied, ‘I actually wanted to play the cornu most, but my teacher said that my lips were too thick for it,’ while scrutinizing Isolde’s lips, and her heart had fluttered.</p>
  <p>Hence Isolde sang that night of new knowing, new enflaming, of an ever endless single consciousness, and the highest love-bliss of an ardent glowing breast.</p>
  <p>‘Save yourself, Tristan!’ his squire Kurwenal’s voice interrupted the music.</p>
  <p>Isolde did not receive the lozenges from Tristan.</p>
</blockquote><p>Unfurling the tapestry further, Isolde beholds illustrations of Tristan defending Duke Hoel’s land, Tristan instructing two children—from their age, they must be Isolde <em>aux blanches mains</em>’ children from her earlier marriage... Isolde the Fair bears nothing but gratitude to Isolde <em>aux blanches mains</em> for updating her on how Tristan fares, and for giving Tristan, who loves children, two to call his own, for Isolde the Fair suspects that she is barren.</p><p>The last picture is of a ship with white sails, <em>the very same ship</em>, which also transported Tristan and Kurwenal to Brittany. <em>To sing with Tristan one more time before death would be enough for me,</em> Isolde the Fair thinks.</p><p>A small tin box clatters to the floor as Isolde stretches out the tapestry to its fullest. She reaches down to return the box to its usual position on her desk, only to realise that <em>her</em> box has not tumbled down. She does not need to open the box that has slipped from the tapestry to know its contents.</p><p>It is pastilles.</p>
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